Dumbledalf the Platinum
by yaphi1
Summary: Dumbledalf is fed up with his life as a cliched old wizard. Every day, he is suffocated by the hero's incessant questions and the villain's empty threats. Dumbledalf wonders how long it will be before everyone learns the truth...


**Dumbledalf the Platinum**

Dumbledalf sat on his obnoxiously throne-like chair, stroking his long silver beard. He was waiting for that young foolish boy who would inevitably come rushing to him with a barrage of questions he would not want to answer. As he admired the folds of his neon purple robes, he idly practiced his dramatic hand flourishes, as old wizards often do when they are bored.

A swift, eager knocking came from the oak door.

Dumbledalf was already annoyed. "Come in," he said, doing his best to sound serene and wise.

As expected, a young boy came rushing in, nearly tripping over himself as he hurried to the desk. "Why won't anyone tell me what's going on?" he demanded.

"Ah, Hero it is you," said Dumbledalf. "A greeting might have been nice, but of course you insist on proceeding directly to the questions."

"Sorry, hi," said Hero quickly. "Now tell me what you know."

"So hasty," said Dumbledalf. "Perhaps one day you shall learn the value of patience."

"I know what you're doing," said Hero.

"Oh?" replied Dumbledalf raising an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"

"You're trying to distract me with one of those lectures."

"One of those lectures?"

"Yes. You know, where you tell me I don't have wisdom or something. By the time you've finished, I don't even want to talk to you anymore so I forget to ask the questions I wanted to ask in the first place."

Dumbledalf was silent for a moment. The boy was right. The plan was to get rid of him by lecturing. It was always the same formula: guilt, shame, and a hearty dash of condescension. This technique had served Dumbledalf well for years, but now that it had been brought out into the open he would have to try something new. He would give the boy a tiny morsel of information and let him chew on it like a rat nibbling at a piece of cheese.

"I shall tell you this," said Dumbledalf, unfolding his hands and spreading his arms, making sure his neon purple sleeves dangled impressively. "The Dark Lord has risen once again."

"Seriously?" Hero was flabbergasted. "He couldn't think of a better name than that? I'm sorry but I've seen professional wrestlers with cleverer names."

"This is a very serious matter. I—"

"Really? The Dark Lord? Everyone calls themselves the Dark Lord. What does this guy have against originality?"

"You don't understand," said Dumbledalf. The news had not had the effect he had hoped for. This did not bode well for him, as his only purpose was to reveal shocking secrets bit by bit. In fact this was why he was so tight-lipped. If he told Hero everything all at once, there would be no further use for him. His aura of mystery would be gone, and he would be thrust into the ranks of forgettable characters with no more of a role than the trees, the houses, and the rest of the idle scenery.

"You're right," said Hero. "I don't understand. I don't understand why everyone insists on being so unoriginal."

"I—"

"Even you!" interjected Hero with a whiny blast of hormone-induced angst. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the narrator's unflattering interpretation of his manly roar. Deciding he would deal with one problem at a time, he turned his attention back to the wizard. "I know exactly what you do, and I don't know how you've been getting away with it for so long."

"What exactly do you mean?" asked Dumbledalf, fixing Hero with what he hoped might pass for a perplexed stare.

"I've seen you," said Hero. "I've seen you in Hairy Snotter and Lord of the Things. You're the same old wizard with the long beard, the thick bathrobe, and the occasional party hat. You make it seem like you're powerful enough to destroy the bad guy with a wave of your hand, but somehow you end up relying on a young fellow who can barely lift a sword. Everyone treats you like such a wonderful new character, but they don't seem to notice you're really just Merlin."

_He's good_, thought Dumbledalf, rapidly calculating his next move. He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. "I must say you are quite sharp. That is why you are the chosen one."

"What does that mean?"

"I, umm—" Dumbledalf cleared his throat to stall for time. He had not thought this through. "It is you who must defeat the Dark Lord," he said, somewhat lamely.

"Me?" Narcissistic pleasure snaked its greedy tentacles across Hero's face.

_Perfect_, thought Dumbledalf. The boy was momentarily stunned, so there was time to regroup.

"Yes you," said Dumbledalf with the warm, trustworthy tone of a witch offering a child a shiny piece of candy. "You must go to the next town. Once you are there, fate shall be your guide."

"Thanks Merlin!" said Hero, turning around to leave.

"It's Dumbledalf you fool!"

"Whatever, Gandaldore."

Hero was out the door before Dumbledalf could manage another word.

Dumbledalf sighed and chuckled to himself. Victory was his. He had fulfilled his role. Every single time, it was the same thing: find the most naïve young man in all the land, flatter him a bit, get him excited, make him feel special, and send him out to do the dirty work. Dumbledalf could have blasted the Dark Lord out of the air, but there would be no fun in that. He wanted to watch the boy suffer.

_I'm a terrible person_, he thought. The idea bothered him for a fraction of a second, and then he went back to practicing his hand flourishes.

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